


One Day

by Jemima_Puddleduck



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John is Not Okay, John is a Mess, M/M, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock is a Good Parent, Teenage Rosie Watson, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-14 00:13:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10524888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jemima_Puddleduck/pseuds/Jemima_Puddleduck
Summary: Sherlock is absorbed in his mind palace in 2017, before suddenly being pulled forwards to 2033. He gets to spend one day with a sixteen year old Rosie Watson, while she fills him in on her life so far.





	1. Morning

"It's today." 

John looked up and saw the silhouette of his daughter leaning causally on the doorframe of his bedroom. 

"I know." He replied, trying to make out her face in the gloom. 

"You sure you don't want to see him?" She asked, cocking her head to one side inquisitively. 

"He told me I never saw him when he arrived. Now he's told me it's set in stone, if I see him I could blow a hole in the universe or something." He gave a gentle laugh and his daughter echoed it. 

She turned to leave and he watched  
her slight, sixteen year-old frame sashaying away from him through the kitchen. "As long as you're sure. He's here in two hours." She tells him on her way out. 

John stood and stretched sleepily before beginning to pack his things into a small suitcase. 

\-------------------------

John stood in the doorway of 221B, suitcase in hand, as he bid farewell to Rosie. 

"Look after him for me." He laughed with conviction, smiling fondly.

"Don't worry, I will." She replied with a smile, giving her dad a warm hug and a quick kiss on the cheek. She watched him descend and absorb into the shadows on the stairs. 

Settling herself into her father's armchair, she tented her fingers under her chin and stared at the vacant armchair opposite. Any minute now. 

\--------------------

Sherlock was sitting pin-straight in his own armchair in his classic 'deduction pose'. He faintly heard Rosie's babbles and John's fond murmurs from the next room, but the clamouring of his mind palace dragged him back into his head. His eyes were firmly shut when he felt a sudden pull in his body, as if all his internal organs had been given one swift tug. His eyes sprang open and fixed on the girl opposite him, occupying John's armchair and mirroring his own pose. 

"Are you a client?" He asked curiously. 

"No." She replied concisely. 

Sherlock took her in carefully, his eyes grazing up and down her body methodically. He noted her resemblance to John almost immediately. Cousin perhaps? He'd never mentioned one. Her curly blonde hair danced in the orange, early-morning sunlight. That set his alarm bells ringing. It had been early afternoon in Baker Street, with bright sunlight streaming in as he sat absorbed in his mind palace. Something was wrong. 

The girl opened her mouth again. "Do you know where you are? Or rather, when?"

Sherlock's eyes widened. He jumped up without warning, like a racing greyhound bursting out of the starting gate. With trembling fingers, he took up that day's newspaper that Rosie had been careful to leave on show. His eyes widened further as he glanced at the date. 

"The twenty-second of April." She informed him. "Twenty thirty-three."

Sherlock shook all over. He'd only just begun his relationship with John in his time. John would be well into his fifties by now. "Can I get back?"

"You get back safe and sound around twenty-four hours from now." She informed him, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "In your time, you've been gone three days. You tell dad all about it. That's how we know."

"Dad?" Sherlock questioned. His mouth hung open less than a second later as the realisation dawned. "Rosie."

"Yeah. Look at me, all grown up." She smiled. "Do you want breakfast? I'm starving." 

"Where's John?" Sherlock asked to her retreating back as she walking into the kitchen. "Can I see him?"

"No, he's away for the night." She told him. "He doesn't know you're here." Rosie lied, knowing that Sherlock was desperate to get answers about his newly-blossoming relationship. 

As she went about making toast, he stood in the middle of the sitting room, completely shell shocked. Rosie glanced over at him, allowing herself to stare just once. She couldn't believe how young he looked. She smiled at his confused baby-face, wild, unkempt curls, gangly limbs and bright eyes. He was backlit by the light of the peachy-pink sunrise poking over the London skyline. He looked so unsure of himself, so out of depth, that she almost didn't recognise him as the Sherlock she knew so well. The toast popped violently, making him jump, and he trained his analytical eyes on her as she gracefully buttered the warm bread. 

She placed the toast on the table, followed by two mugs of tea, one with just a dash of milk and the other black as tar and sickly sweet. Pulling out a chair, she beckoned Sherlock closer and said, "Sit. We need to talk."


	2. Afternoon

Sherlock and Rosie had time to kill, as Sherlock didn't return to his normal life until early the next morning. They decided to take a stroll around London, giving Sherlock a sneak preview of the new skyscrapers that would soon tower over his own London. Rosie could sense that he was disorientated, confused and lost as the streets he knew like the back of his hand began to wind and bend in strange shapes that he couldn't recognise. She introduced the important new sights, and pointed out the old ones in the jumble of steel and glass. Sherlock was taken aback when she slightly snuggled into his side as the walked. He marvelled at how natural the movement seemed to be to her, and how at ease she was. It made him wonder about his life to come and think about what part he'd play in the story of her life. 

"I know you have questions." She said nonchalantly as they strolled through Westminster. "I'll answer as best I can without too many spoilers."

"Now I'm here, I don't really know what to ask." Sherlock admitted, brow furrowed in concentration.

"I understand. I guess part of you doesn't want to know." She replied. Sherlock had his arms hanging limply by his side as he walked. He'd borrowed a coat from the current Sherlock's wardrobe and it somehow made him seem more real to Rosie, more like the man she knew. Overcome by emotion, she stepped closer and snaked one arm around his as they walked, linking them at the elbows. Her heart almost broke when his first instinct was to try and pull back. 

"Sorry." She mumbled. "I forgot for a moment that you're still young." 

"No, I'm sorry, it's just I'm new to this and I don't have the first idea what I'm doing." He babbled nervously. Fear was rising in his chest as he began to fully comprehend how much he'd come to influence Rosie. He didn't know how to be a father figure or how to guide her through life. He'd only just managed it himself. Rosie was taken aback by his rushed voice and the honest admission. 

"It's alright." She told him softly. "It was my mistake. I'll back off a little, okay?" 

Sherlock nodded slightly at her words and they drifted back into line, side by side, with years unlived pushing a gap between them. Her kindness had touched a nerve and he took another look at her. The midday sun made her curls glow golden, the light bouncing from them in a halo. A small, contented smile stretched across her lips and it didn't take long for Sherlock to recognise it as John's own happy smirk. 

"You turned out just like your father." Sherlock smiled fondly. 

"I think I got a few things from you as well." Rosie informed him, returning his gaze. 

"Oh?" 

Rosie gestured across the street. "That woman in the red top has a cheating husband with unaddressed commitment issues and the only reason she hasn't yet divorced him is due to the dispute of who would get custody of their three corgis." 

Sherlock snorted a laugh. "Sounds about right." 

They walked in contented silence for a while, Rosie taking in the beauty of the the city she loved, while Sherlock catalogued and filed away all the changes he came across. 

"I've thought of a question." He said suddenly, breaking Rosie from her reverie. 

"Yes?" 

"Have you had a good life?" He asked cautiously. 

"Yes, definitely." She replied. "I mean, everyone has their ups and downs, it's part of being human, but there's been much more good to outweigh the bad." 

Sherlock nodded, satisfied. "Have people been good to you?"

Her face fell slightly. "Not everyone." 

Sherlock stared down at her sympathetically with wide, sad eyes. He knew that face, and exactly how she felt. He must have had more of an influence on her personality than he'd first suspected. Part of him broke when he entertained the idea that it could be his own fault that she was hurting. 

"It's okay. Nobody can be liked by everybody." She told Sherlock gently, seeing the guilt and sadness in his eyes. Sherlock smiled gratefully, but he knew the whole thing was wrong. He should be comforting her, not the other way around. 

"I never had a proper friend until I met your dad." Sherlock admitted quietly. "It will get better, even if part of you thinks it won't." 

Rosie stared at him in shock. She could already see him changing to become the father she knew and loved. The father who would pull her close to his chest when she cried, the father who could always deduce her problem without her saying a word, the father who was more loving and caring and affectionate then he would ever care to admit. She almost sobbed when he slipped his arm around hers and linked them closely together.


	3. Evening

They tumbled back into Baker Street together, still laughing heartily at each other's anecdotes. Rosie wheezed slightly from the giggles as she dropped into her dad's armchair. 

"Get back up." Sherlock told her, smiling broadly and holding out a hand. "Let's dance." 

Rosie grinned and took the proffered hand. She'd been describing her constant failure with dance, beginning with ballet, where she'd tripped and fallen on her face, leaving Sherlock to be the one to patch her up carefully. He'd insisted on teaching her properly, wondering why on earth he hadn't done it before. The old speaker was still sitting in its old place on the table, looking out of place on a desk full of up to date technology. A few quick button presses from Sherlock and music was pouring out into the flat. 

They danced for what seemed like hours, spinning and twirling and prancing about until they couldn't stand any more. They collapsed onto the large sofa in an exhausted heap, sitting comfortably side by side. 

They chatted for a while longer, still sharing stories and making some small talk. Rosie's words slowly began to slur and soon her head was lolling on Sherlock's shoulder. He smiled fondly at her, happy that this was the life in store for him as he grew older. He knew he would look forward to moments like this, with a sleepy Rosie against his shoulder or snoring in his lap. A scene of perfect contentment. 

When Rosie was fully asleep and had stopped mumbling, Sherlock scooped her up gently, surprised at the ease with which he could carry her thin frame to her bedroom upstairs. He waited in the doorway on his way out, watching her sleep peacefully under the covers. As he turned to go she began to shift under the covers. She was soon calling out in her sleep, her outstretched arms grappling for help that wasn't there. Sherlock  was quickly by her side land coaxing her out of the dream slowly, just as he did with John. He clutched her hand tightly and gave it a reassuring squeeze, before gently stroking her hair. She relaxed at his familiar touch, her tense muscles melting back into the mattress. 

"Shh now. It's alright. It's not real. You're alright." He whispered softly. 

She opened her eyes suddenly, breaths coming in rattling gasps. She took in her Sherlock, crouching by the bed with his hand grasping hers. Her heart rate slowed and she sank back into the covers as she recovered. 

"Does the violin still help you to sleep?" Sherlock asked her gently, still stroking the sweaty curls away from her face. She nodded. 

Sherlock was soon right back by her side with his violin in hand. It was a bit out of tune, so he fiddled with the strings for a moment before he finally began to play one of Rosie's favourites. He'd found out back in his own time that Bach helps baby Rosie to sleep best. 

Rosie was drinking in every note, letting the beautiful sounds wash over her. She began to cry softly, teardrops slowly making tracks down her face. Whether it was due to her nightmare or the beauty of the music, Sherlock couldn't tell. 

Finally, he finished his melody. Thinking Rosie was asleep, he tiptoed quietly across the room towards the door. 

"Stay." A small mumble came from the bed. Sherlock crept back and knelt by the side of the bed, trying to be a comforting presence. 

"Need you." She whispered, and Sherlock knew exactly what to do. He climbed onto the bed, not bothering to get under the covers, and let Rosie bury herself into his chest. When he laid an arm across her shoulders, pulling her close, he felt her relax again, breathing out a shuddering sigh as she drifted back into sleep. 

"Love you dad." She mumbled as sleep began to take her. Feeling Sherlock tense up against her at her words, she realised the magnitude of what she had said. 

"Sorry." She stuttered, suddenly wide awake again. "I know you didn't...oh god...I'm sorry." 

Sherlock took a shaky breath and smiled at her. "It's fine. I...I like it. You calling me 'dad' I mean." 

"Oh. Okay." Rosie smiled softly back, and buried her head in his chest once more, wrapping her hands in the material of his shirt. 

Sherlock felt her grip slowly slacken, and soon she was sleeping deeply, huffing tiny, barely audible breaths onto his chest. He didn't know how long he spent there, contented and fit to burst with the love he felt for the girl he now considered his own daughter. The last time he'd felt such elation was the first time John had kissed him, and before that, he couldn't remember such an emotion. 

Just as he was finally drifting off to sleep himself, he felt the recognisable tug on his insides once more, and when he finally dared to open his eyes, his daughter was gone and he was lying on the plush rug in the centre of 221B. John was staring down at him, fuming. Then he remembered. To John, he'd been gone three days.


	4. Night

She felt him leave her. It was earlier than expected and she suddenly felt bereft. That would be the last time. 

She turned over into the impression he'd left on her bed, still warm, but horribly empty. She sobbed into the pillows, great heaving sobs that shook the bed-frame with vigour. She was shaking all over, she could feel the unease in the hands that, not a few moments ago, were knotted up comfortably in her father's shirt. She thought she might have been wailing, but in the moment she couldn't tell. The sight of his violin discarded on the floor sent a fresh torrent of tears down her red cheeks. 

When the sobbing abated, she knew what to do. She picked up the violin and carefully took it back down the stairs to stow away back in the case. She then took her coat from the peg, slipped on her shoes and rushed through 221B and into the outside world. A cab wasn't easy to come by, so she ran. Her legs began to burn as the street lamps flashed past in a blur. Cars honked as she passed and strangers called out to ask if she was okay. Her eyes brimming with tears should have given them the answer. Grief fuelled her, her legs mechanically driving her to her destination. She knew the route off by heart, she'd walked it many times before. 

\--------------------

John saw her bolt through the iron gates, her eyes wide like a frightened deer and hands shaking uncontrollably. She caught his eye and burst into sobs, running into his arms like a hurt toddler. They knelt on the cold, wet grass together, clutching each other as they found it harder and harder to breathe. 

"He's gone." She choked out into John's shoulder. 

He simply rubbed her back with him palm in circles. "I know Rosie sweetheart. I know. Shh. It's okay." 

"It's not okay." She wailed brokenly. 

John's voice trembled as he repeated the words whispered to him so many years ago. "No, but it is what it is." 

They hugged each other harder. They needed to be together now more than ever. John took a glance at the tombstone next to them, the jet black stone poking like a dagger from the muddy brown earth. It had two simple words carved into its surface, no emotional messages, no unnecessary information. Just simply, 

Sherlock Holmes


End file.
